


Truculence

by insomniacjams



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, M/M, Shawzy is a punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:05:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>truc·u·lent<br/>/ˈtrəkyələnt/<br/>adjective<br/>1. eager or quick to argue or fight; aggressively defiant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truculence

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many things to say about this story yet I feel like I can say nothing at all.  
> It was a bit rushed toward the end so I ended up cutting it shorter than intended but it turned out better than I thought it would've. 
> 
> Some weird pairings came out of this, and I'm sorry about that.

Andrew arrives at YVR with a 40 litre backpack stuffed with T-shirts printed with superheroes and band names, a battered copy of Slaughterhouse 5, and a despondent outlook on life. He scans the airport wearily; there are signs in three languages: English, French, and Chinese. 

He's so tired the English signs barely point him in the right direction, though he supposes he's back in the right country after a tiring year of chasing dreams blindly around Europe and down an increasingly filthy drain.

Customs is easy. He wonders if he'd come back sooner if he knew it'd be this easy. He stumbles through the airport, bypasses the ticket machines and staggers into the back car of the SkyTrain, collapsing into a hard plastic seat. He wants to tell the world he's home, maybe call his mother, but that isn't true -- he's not home, because Vancouver has never been his home, and probably never will.

But he's back in a familiar city, and that he figures, will do for now.

Four weeks ago, Andrew had met a nice man named Ryan online. Their shared interests (hockey, live music, and travelling) made it easy to bond despite the distance between them, and now, Andrew's waiting for him in a Tim Horton's a block from Waterfront station, sipping a white hot chocolate and eating a Boston cream doughnut.

"Andrew?" Ryan is tall; he looks like a hockey player, with tight muscles that ripple even under his sweater and unruly hair that sticks out from his Vancouver Canucks toque. 

"Hi."

Ryan pulls the chair out across from Andrew, kicks his pack aside, and grins. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Andrew says. "Are you sure you're okay with me sleeping on your couch?" Ryan nods once, and they keep up a steady stream of chatter all the way back to Waterfront, onto the Expo line, and out to Broadway Station where Ryan leads Andrew up East 4th Avenue to a narrow apartment crammed between a corner grocer and a wide set slate grey house.

"It's not much," Ryan tells him as he pushes open the door, "but it's home. You're welcome to the couch over there, or you can take the air mattress in my room."

"The couch is fine," Andrew says, then tacks a "Thank you," on the end because his mother raised him to have manners -- even after all this time abroad, he's still a good old Canadian boy at heart.

After seeing the bathroom and taking a casual stroll around the neighbourhood, Andrew and Ryan visit a diner on Main Street called Lucy's that serves breakfast all day. "Where are you from?" Ryan asks him around a mouthful of his Monte Cristo sandwich.

Andrew doesn't know how to answer that question. He knows where he was born -- in room 402 of a hospital on the outskirts of Bellville, Ontario that was torn down a few years after -- and he knows where he was raised -- on the southern tip of an island roughly the size of Belgium only a short ferry ride from Vancouver -- but he doesn't think he came from either of those places.

He thinks about telling Ryan that he's from the ocean, because the Ocean is the only staple in his life that makes him feel at home, but he thinks it's cheesy and would make him sound like a twat. "I'm from the island," he settles, and that's done when Ryan starts talking about growing up in Vancouver. Andrew lets the voice wash over him and eats his bacon cheeseburger.

"Thanks for letting me stay," Andrew says for the thousandth time that night as Ryan goes to shut off the light. 

"It's no problem," Ryan tells him before turning in. Andrew lies awake; he's not very tall, but his feet almost hang off the end of the couch. The cushions are lumpy and the streetlamp from outside the window distracts from the peace. A car honks outside; sirens wail off in the distance. Andrew sighs.

He spent a lot of time in Vancouver when he was younger and adamantly searching for a place to call his own. On the days his friends fretted over tests and girlfriends, he packed his school bag with snacks and took the bus past the school to the ferry terminal and spent days in the city looking for trouble.

He hasn't changed much since then. 

Because of that, Andrew does have a handful or two of friends scattered throughout the city -- had he really wanted, he could have asked any of them for a couch instead of scouring Couchsurfing.org and hoping he got lucky (he did). 

His friends aren't the type of people Andrew wants to stay with though; they're the kind of people who leaves messes where they stand -- not the type of mess you can wipe up with a rag either, and Andrew doesn't like that. He wiggles around on the lumpy couch and digs out his iPod. It's a long road to morning, and he's been an insomniac for as long as he's been alive.

The punk rock in his ears doesn't much to soothe his soul but it gets his eyes closed for a while.

xvx

Andrew doesn't have a phone, or a computer to get on Facebook, but he knows it won't be hard to track down his friends -- and it isn't, because it takes him less than an hour to wander down the same streets he remembers well from his high school years as he shakes sleep from his head and finds a familiar face. Marc hasn't changed much in the year or so it's been since Andrew last saw him. He's still obnoxiously lanky and ginger.

Marc's wearing a Vacant State T-shirt; he tells Andrew they're a new hardcore band from the area that plays raging sets in this new space called Garbage Mountain. "How've you been?" Andrew asks. Neither of them has much money so they sit on the front porch of the Food Not Bombs house and watch the steady drizzle collapse from the sky.

"I'm good; the crew's been good," Marc says. He pauses for a second, like he's wondering whether he should say it, before he tells Andrew, "Patrick's in rehab again. He moved to Edmonton recently. I think the snow there made him rethink his life or something." Andrew nods, because he doesn't know what to say. He wrings his hands together; his nails dig into his skin. It seems like every time he comes back to the city, someone else is in rehab, and every other time someone else is dead.

"Did something happen?"

"I wasn't there," Marc tells him, "but Ryan- uh, Nuge, he told me that he OD'd on Valentine's Day because he mixed cocaine with some heroin he just got-" Andrew tunes him out, because he doesn't want to know anymore.

"How are your brothers?" He interrupts Marc's story.

"They're good," Marc shrugs. "Jordan's got another job at a pizza place and he just moved into the Rat's Nest which isn't too far from the bar where he works at night. Jared moved back to T-Bay to work for the parents, and well, Eric has a new boyfriend. You'll probably meet him tonight if you come out to the show."

"What show?" Andrew asks.

"Vacant State is playing at Garbage Mountain," Marc shrugs. "Some other bands will be there I'm sure, but the whole crew is coming out so if you want to catch up, that'd be the place to do it. How long are you in town for?"

"I don't know," Andrew confesses, because he hadn't even meant to come back to the west coast, but it happened anyway. He doesn't have anywhere to go -- his bedroom at his parents' house has been converted into a study; they told him earlier this year, somewhere between Montenegro and Slovenia, they were done waiting on him to get his shit together. "Maybe forever, if I find a reason to stay."

"Don't stay in this shithole. It'll kill you," Marc says, pulling a cigarette and a matchbook from his pocket. He lights up and inhales deeply, sighing. "Also, don't ever start smoking. It'll kill you too, kid."

"I know," Andrew says; he smoked a lot of tobacco in Europe. It was cheap, it was a social thing, it was calming to roll his own cigarettes -- he had a billion excuses that wouldn't fly with himself on his better days, but he hasn't had better days in many years. "I'll see you tonight," he tells Marc before he leaves. Marc raises a hand in a salute goodbye and when Andrew walks off the porch, he feels more disheartened than he had stepping foot back on Canadian soil.

He stops at McDonalds for dinner because he doesn't think he deserves any better than greasy, not quite beef double cheeseburgers. When he gets back to Ryan's apartment, the door's unlocked for him.

"Have you got plans for tonight?" Ryan asks him from where he's sprawled on the living room floor wrestling with a guy Andrew doesn't recognize. 

"Yeah. I'm meeting some friends and checking out a band. You're welcome to join."

"Nah, I think we're going down to the Shark Club for some drinks. This is Kevin," Ryan says, nudging his friend with his foot as they both sit up on the ground. "Kev, this is Andrew, the kid that's sleeping on my couch."

"You're the one from Germany?" Kevin asks.

"I was in Germany when I got in touch with Ryan, but I'm really just from the island," Andrew shrugs. "I got lost for a while." 

Kevin barks out a laugh. "How lost did you get to end up in Germany?"

"Pretty fucking lost," Andrew says, pawing through his backpack for a warmer hoodie before heading back out. He wants to say he's still lost, somewhere deep inside his head, but he doesn't. He finds his hoodie, pulls it over his head, and steps toward the doorway.

"Hey, wait, before you go," Ryan calls after him. Andrew spins around, nearly falling over. Kevin stifles a laugh.

"There's a pick-up game tomorrow afternoon, just ball hockey, in the neighbourhood if you're interested."

"Yeah, if I'm around," Andrew says vaguely before bolting. Andrew isn't the type to commit to much, no matter how much he enjoys ball hockey. Anything could happen tonight.

xvx

He arrives at the address Marc gave him earlier that day; it's a warehouse -- the entrance is through the back alley. There are some angry looking bikers lurking next door blasting Motorhead. The alley smells like piss and beer. Andrew smiles. It smells a bit like familiarity.

He pushes through the door and scans the crowd for the head of ginger hair -- he spots it near the far corner, but as he's pushing his way along through the tightly packed room, he's hauled aside by a face he hasn't seen in years.

"Shawzy!"

"Taylor!" He lets his body fall forward into the rib-crushing hug, returning it hesitantly despite the surprise in his voice. Taylor was a vagabond; he was better travelled than Andrew, and had spent the past four years bouncing between Vancouver, Montreal, Edmonton, and various American cities. Some days, Andrew loved him -- other days, Andrew wanted to tie rocks to his ankles and toss him in the Pacific. It was an opinion shared by most, except perhaps Jordan Eberle, who hung off Taylor like a limpet on a rock.

"Good to see you! I heard you spent some time in Europe recently, how did that go?" Taylor spews in one breath, and Andrew's usually pretty high strung and runs at a fast pace himself, but he actually needs to take a second to process everything.

"It was good- met a lot of good people, and saw some really old buildings. I didn't burn any churches though."

"Damn," Taylor grins wide. "So what are you doing back in Van?"

"Same shit, different day," Andrew shrugs, like he hadn't spontaneously bought a plane ticket back to a place that spoke his language after a year bumming around on couches abroad.

"Good times man," Taylor says, which doesn't make much sense but Andrew just accepts it (he's probably high as fuck). "Do you need a beer?" Before he can formulate an answer, a room temperature can of Cariboo is pressed into his palm and Taylor is being beckoned away by someone Andrew doesn't recognize.

Cracking his beer, Andrew continues his push through the throng toward the corner where he'd spotted Marc's bobbing hair. "There you are," Marc yelps as Andrew pokes him in the side to announce his presence. Marc tosses an arm over his shoulders, and leans on him, already well on his way to comfortably numb.

"I ran into Taylor," Andrew tells him, and he just laughs, which means he's more intoxicated than not since Marc usually speaks vehemently when Taylor's name is mentioned.

"How's it going guys?" Andrew waves around the circle where he recognizes Johnny, Sidney and Gabe, along with two of Marc's brothers. There were a few other faces there that hadn't been around a year ago when Andrew had said his goodbyes, but the introductions fly over his head in the flurry of sound as the drummer of the first band starts beating his snare.

The band plays hard, fast and loud. Their songs are somewhere between twenty and thirty seconds long and half the people filter outside including Andrew's group. "How've you guys been?" He asks. He gets a chorus of polite answers in return.

They ask him about Europe; about the punk shows, the squats, the festivals and the campgrounds. Andrew tells them about shoplifting store brand liquor from Aldi in Berlin, heavy metal bars in Helsinki, hitching a ride from a bee farmer in Tirana and the beaches in Dubrovnik. He says, "You guys would love it there," and they listen to him, eyes wide with wonder, because most of them never have and never will see past the dull grey of rain city.

Andrew sips his beer while the guys chatter around him; they get him caught up on the gossip that Marc had glossed over earlier. "Brandon got clean," Johnny says, his voice sounding sharp against the dull drone of everyone else's.

"Brandon Bollig?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," Andrew says, because he never would have guessed that the biggest coke head of them all would have cleaned up his act in a year. "Good for him. What happened?"

"I don't know. He doesn't come around here anymore," Johnny says, rubbing his neck. That means he's lying, but Andrew doesn't push (not yet, he'll try and get it out of Marc later). Andrew and Brandon used to date, a long time ago, on and off until off happened more than on and it left Andrew turned on and frustrated with no way of getting off most nights. Yeah, it ended for a real reason, he thinks, not just because they yelled about the coke every night.

Then again, Andrew thinks -- squeezing the inside of his elbow on his left side with his right hand, his dominant hand -- he thinks he doesn't have the room to throw stones. 

"You too?" Johnny asks, and Andrew realizes Johnny had still been talking. He squeezes his arm harder.

"Me what?"

"Did you get clean too?" Marc asks. He's got a fat bottle in a paper bag, but Marc never changes -- Andrew knows it's a 40 of Old English (it always is) that he says he drinks alone but shares with his brothers. 

Sid's drinking Colt 45 -- well, Sid's holding a cracked can of Colt 45. He'll probably pour it down the toilet later when he thinks no one notices; he doesn't drink much, and even if he's too shy and embarrassed to talk about it, Andrew respects him for it. He wishes he could find moderation in his life like that.

"You're staring at my beer. Do you want it?" Sid asks. Andrew downs the rest of his Cariboo in a gulp and nods.

"Thanks." He takes it so Sid won't have to finish it. He's a good Samaritan like that.

"You never answered the question," Johnny nudges him. "If you are, we'll leave you alone, yeah?"

"I guess I'm clean?" Andrew tries to tell them, but it comes out like a question. "I smoked a lot of weed in Europe, but maybe I can stop now," he shrugs.

"I wasn't talking about the weed," Johnny says, eyes narrowing.

"Jeez, why the inquisition?" Andrew asks, squeezing his arm tighter. He doesn't mean to dodge the question, but he feels like his friends have cannons aimed at his head.

"Because you disappeared for a year!" Jordan jumps into the conversation like an explosion. "We worried about you," he adds at a more reasonable volume.

"I'm doing okay," Andrew says finally.

"Clean?" Johnny presses, because sometimes he likes to pretend he's 60 years old and their dad.

"I'm okay," Andrew repeats, so Johnny drops it.

"So, tells us more about Europe," Eric butts in. Andrew smiles, thankful for the topic change as he gets to babble on about the Finns and how they think it's normal to get naked and sit in the sauna with each other.

Eric's boyfriend is about Andrew's size; though he missed his name in the introduction, he has dimples the size of craters and floppy brown hair that curls at the nape of his neck. He looks young, younger than Andrew, and that makes Andrew wonder when he grew up.

He doesn't feel grown up, but he went away for a while and suddenly he's not the kid anymore. He knows to some of these guys he'll always be the fifteen year old he was when they first met, but it's weird now that he's old enough to drink, old enough to drive -- old enough to know that he isn't the kid anymore.

As they follow the swell of people back inside toward the buzz of guitars from the second band, Andrew keeps his eyes trained on the guy hanging off Eric's arm -- Andrew remembers when he looked that wide-eyed and innocent. He wonders if Eric and Marc had looked at him back then like he looks at this guy now.

He recognizes the fact that years fighting the city for a space to call their own had taken its toll on many people in the scene. A lot of old faces are weathered beyond their years; Marc's in his late twenties now, but when Andrew looks him in the eyes, he looks like he's lived a thousand lives. That battle belonged to Andrew once, but since he's come back, everything has shifted and he just feels like another visitor on the doorstep of someone else's sanctuary.

The second band is actually kind of good, all things considering. Their singer screeches a bit, but they sample a few cult classics and they play a tight set with stockings pulled over their faces. "They're a gimmick," Sid says, but Johnny seems into them. 

"I like them," the guy on Eric's arm pipes up; he grins at Eric, who grins dopily right back. 

"I like you," Eric says. Andrew hides his laugh by finishing his beer -- they're adorable.

"What did you think?" Gabe asks, nudging Andrew slightly. Before Andrew bolted across the ocean, they'd spent a few nights together out of loneliness. Andrew thought it'd be awkward seeing him again, but it isn't, and hearing that Swedish accent reminds him of the Swedes he'd befriended in Poland so he can't help the dumb smile that tweaks his lips upward.

"They're good," Andrew says.

"They're better than when they started," Gabe informs him, launching into a story about how everyone plugged their ears and left the room during their first show where they played a ten minute set at the Rat's Nest. Andrew nods at the right places and pretends to listen while he scans the crowd without much thought -- then he remembers what Johnny said- "He doesn't come around anymore."

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Gabe asks, interrupting Andrew's thoughts.

"Uh, this guy I'm staying with is taking me to a pick-up game," Andrew shrugs. "So, uh, probably buying a stick if I can't borrow one."

"You haven't got a stick?" Gabe looks personally offended as he raises his eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline. 

"I've been living out of a backpack for over a year. I ain't got shit," Andrew snorts. "Or money, but whatever, I could always use a stick."

"You can have one of my old ones. Come over tonight," Gabe demands. Andrew doesn't have the audacity to deny him, even though he knows what comes attached to that invitation.

Gabe had moved to Vancouver from Sweden a couple years before Andrew left; they'd bonded, partially due to Gabe's maturity coupled with Andrew's immaturity. Marc said they made a good pair because they balanced each other out, but neither of them had thought much about it until they were tangled together on Gabe's mattress with too much tongue between them and they realized Andrew had a flight to the Czech Republic the next morning.

"Do you still live in the same place?" Andrew asks.

"Yeah," Gabe says. His place is a shithole; rat infested, moldy and grimy. His place is one of those places Andrew wouldn't want to stay. Andrew nods in acknowledgment. He's glad he met Ryan.

"I'll find you after the show," he tells Gabe and escapes into the bathroom. It's a single; there's vomit on the floor and the toilet seat and the tap is dripping, pattering onto the sink which is encrusted with spilt beer and dirt.

"Breathe," Andrew tells himself aloud; he's squeezing the crook of his elbow again. He hastily rolls up his sleeve, staring at the track marks and wondering if they'd go away if he stared long enough (he knows they won't though, because reality doesn't work like that). 

He fumbles around in his pockets; he doesn't find much (a bus ticket, a coupon for 50% off an appetizer from Lucy's, and a gram of weed). He fumbles through his pockets again -- the ticket and weed are still there, he thinks he dropped the coupon the first time. "I don't have..." He trails off, because he's talking to himself, and of course he doesn't have anything. He hasn't bought anything since getting off that plane (the weed is a welcome back gift from Marc). He squeezes his arm harder. He's starting to sweat. He gets out of that bathroom.

"So, Shawzy," Marc drawls when he gets outside again, "Where were you?"

"Huh?"

"You missed the last band," Johnny supplies helpfully. 

"Huh," Andrew mutters. Had he really been in the bathroom that long?

"You're shaking kid," Eric drops a hand onto his shoulder, concerned. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Yeah, maybe," Andrew mutters. Why's he shaking? He hadn't noticed it before, but now his whole body is sweating and his legs don't really cooperate -- the guy hanging off Eric actually lets go of him long enough so that he can haul Jeff over to the wall and plant his ass down on the concrete. Andrew's fingers are twitching. His eyes can't follow them. He wants to sleep.

"Hey, hey, Andrew," Eric's calling his name, so he forces his eyes open. Andrew's always tired, but maybe he's been more tired than usual because this sudden fatigue hits him like a cement mixer. He wants to go to sleep and never wake up. "Drink this," Eric tells him, and when he looks up, Sid's holding a glass to him. It looks like water. Andrew forces only a sip down before shoving Eric aside and spewing all over the ground. Sid grimaces. There's probably some of it on his shoes.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Andrew repeats, struggling when Eric hauls him to his feet.

"Right, someone should take him home," Eric talks over Andrew's mumbling. Andrew chances a look at Gabe, but no one else is looking at him. Gabe doesn't want him anyway if he's not getting laid (Andrew feels like he's going to fall over and just puked on Sid's shoes, he doesn't think Gabe wants to fuck him anyway). 

"Fuck," Marc passes the joint he's holding to his brother in exchange for the weight of Andrew against his side. "I'll take him then," he says, exasperated. 

The bus ride back to Marc's is quiet except for the steady throb of traffic noises around them. There's a shouting match somewhere down the block behind them, but the sirens drown them out easily. "Sorry you didn't get to see the band," Andrew mumbles into Marc's shoulder where he's leaning his head. "Maybe jet lag's just catching up to me."

"Are you sure it's jet lag?" Marc asks as he hauls Andrew up the front porch of his house.

"No," Andrew says. He knows it's not jet lag. 

"Have you eaten anything today?" Marc asks him as he opens the door to his room and dumps Andrew onto his bed. Andrew shrugs. 

"I'll take that as a no, then," Marc sighs.

"I had some McDonalds," Andrew says.

"That's not food," Marc sighs again and disappears into his kitchen. He comes back with a roll of crackers and tosses them at Andrew's head. "What did you drink?"

"Two beers. One from Taylor and one from Sid."

"Have you slept?"

"I couldn't sleep on the plane but I slept two or three hours last night."

"What did you take?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing since-" Andrew pauses, "Germany, so I guess I haven't done anything in almost two days."

"You haven't slept much in almost two days too. That explains a lot. I'm surprised you're not worse off," Marc sighs, putting his hand on Andrew's forehead like he's looking for a fever (Andrew's still sweating, but he's shivering, so he probably has one).

"I always feel like shit so it's nothing new. Do you have anything?" Andrew pleads. His voice sounds desperate. "I don't have money but I can blow you-"

"Whoa!" Marc cuts him off. "I can check," he says opening his nightstand. Andrew doesn't know what he's hoping for -- Marc's a good guy, and he doesn't usually do much outside of hallucinogens. 

"Here kid," he says, pulling a kit out of the drawer. Andrew scrambles for it and Marc sighs, watching as Andrew takes it apart like a rabid animal. "You need some help, Mutt?" He scrubs Andrew's neck where his hair meets skin, like he would a dog. It feels good, and Andrew automatically leans into the touch.

"Yeah, p-please, yeah," Andrew stutters out. Marc helps him get powder on the spoon with a bit of water and runs the lighter underneath for him while Andrew hastily ties a tourniquet on his arm. "Fuck, come on, that's good," he nudges Marc with his foot, who sighs and fills the syringe.

"You do this yourself," he gives it to Andrew who nearly drops it with his fumbling. Marc looks away while Andrew sighs as the drug takes over his system. Slowly, as he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, he starts feeling closer to his normal state -- high strung.

"I'm worried about you," Marc says. He's not looking at Andrew, instead staring out the window toward the apartments next door. 

"Don't," Andrew begs. "Please, I'm not worth it."

"Oh, Shawzy," Marc sighs, and fists his hand around Andrew's arm, pulling him close. They fall asleep like that, next to each other, with Marc not quite holding Andrew.

xvx

Andrew wakes up nearly seven hours later, which must be some sort of record. His mouth tastes like something died in it and Marc's snoring on top of his left arm.

He hauls himself out of bed, brushes his teeth with Marc's toothbrush, and finishes off the heroin from the night before. "Hey," he nudges Marc with his foot. "I'm going to go-"

"No, hey, wait," Marc stretches, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Stay, Mutt."

"What?"

"I'll make you breakfast," Marc says. "I know you won't eat otherwise." That is how Andrew finds himself with a plate of toast, eggs and hash browns still sitting on Marc's bed in some borrowed clothes, just past noon.

After eating, Andrew does the dishes making awkward small talk with Marc's roommates who are playing cards at the table before returning to the bedroom. "Thanks, you know, for everything," he rubs the back of his neck nervously before sinking down to his knees at the edge of the bed.

"Shawzy, c'mon-" Marc starts, but stops abruptly when Andrew starts unzipping his jeans. 

"This okay?"

"Yeah, but fuck, you don't have to-"

"I know," Andrew says, determined, and manages to get Marc's jeans off most of the way before tugging off the black boxers too. "I want to."

Andrew's handed out a lot of blowjobs in his life for lesser reasons, and while he doesn't think he gives the most spectacular blowjobs ever, he enjoys it too so it isn't any sort of loss for him. 

Also, it's Marc, who Andrew knows is a good guy. Marc would never take advantage of him, would never pull his hair and push his cock down his throat until he vomits. No, Marc's not like some of the guys Andrew's been with, thank God.

As it is, Marc's not hard to look at, but he's got a nice cock to boot which helps with the blowjob scenario. Andrew gently works his hand around the balls and the base, pushes his nose into the ginger, almost blonde hair (neatly trimmed, because it's Marc) and takes a deep breath.

Andrew doesn't get fancy, he doesn't like to tease, and he doesn't ever do more or less than promised, so there's no surprised noise from Marc when Andrew opens his mouth and swirls his tongue around the tip.

"Jeez, kid," Marc complains as Andrew experimentally scrapes his teeth along the shaft (hey, some people are into it, and apparently Marc isn't one of them). 

"Sorry," Andrew says after pulling off with a soft smacking noise. Marc sighs, and guides Andrew's head back between his thighs. It doesn't take much longer; a few well-timed twists of Andrew's tongue and a careful tug at the right spot and suddenly Marc's flooding his mouth with the familiar texture. Andrew spits into the bathroom sink while Marc lies dazed on the bed.

"Do you know someone...?" Marc starts when Andrew returns to the room, stops, then starts over. "Do you still have a dealer?"

"Yeah, I'll get it figured out and if I don't maybe I'll check myself into a detox place for a while," Andrew shrugs. He knows detox places are hard to get in, which is a joke in itself. He knows they don't always work either. He's never been, but he knows Johnny went once, a long time ago (he heard all about it from Sid).

"Okay," Marc says, struggling up to his elbows. He doesn't say goodbye when Andrew leaves, but Andrew doesn't either.

xvx

"Hey, we were just about to leave; you made it just in time," Ryan says when Andrew arrives back at the apartment.

"Sorry," he huffs, slightly breathless. "I fell asleep and my friend insisted on making me breakfast." Ryan lets out an appreciative laugh.

"Sounds like you've got a good friend there." Andrew blushes thinking about how good of a friend Marc is -- how good Marc tastes lingering on his tongue when he's being a good friend. 

"Yeah, he's great. I, uh, I was going to borrow a stick from a friend but I lost track of him last night," Andrew thinks about Gabe, and frowns. "I don't have one."

"Here," Kevin appears from somewhere down the hall. "Ryan has an extra of mine in the closet somewhere." They're only delayed by the five minutes it takes to dig out the stick and for Andrew to take a piss, and then they're off to play a game.

On the way there, Andrew texts his old dealer with a cheap phone he'd gotten from Marc, and gets an optimistic response saying to swing by later. He feels like he's getting shit done; there's an extra bounce in his step when they reach the makeshift hockey rink. 

"I grew up here," Ryan grins, nudging Andrew lightly. There's a decent sized rink and a few tennis courts along with a basketball hoop and off in the distance, a park with a baseball and soccer field.

"I wish I had something like this where I grew up," Andrew grins, and he lines up as Ryan introduces him to too many faces he won't remember.

He's laughing with Ryan and a goalie named Antti who recently moved from Finland when a familiar face pulls the aforementioned goalie into a tight hug. "Brandon!" Antti laughs.

"Raanta!" Brandon calls back with equal enthusiasm; Antti seems to have a permanent smile plastered on his face as he spins around. 

"Hey, Brandon, this is Ryan's friend-"

"Shawzy?" Brandon asks, incredulous. Andrew gives a half shrug.

"Hey. How've you been?"

"Hey, uh, good..." Brandon looks confused, but some scruffy guy with too much facial hair calls the group to attention, and they all face him to divide into two mostly even teams.

The game goes by quick; the guys get tired quick and filter off in their own groups. Brandon seems to have lost the friends he came with when he approaches Andrew at the end, sweaty but breathing normally again. 

"Did you want to get a coffee?"

"I haven't got much money," Andrew says. He's not fishing for handouts, but he's not lying either -- his bank account had been feeling a bit deflated since he bought his plane ticket back to Canada and he needs to save up for more crucial things, like the shit he needs to put in his veins to stop episodes like last night.

"I'll buy," Brandon says, so Andrew wanders off to say his goodbyes to the few he'd talked to that were still lingering around the rink, and return Kevin's stick.

When Andrew and Brandon were together, Brandon had asked him once why he chose heroin over cocaine. It was a stupid question, Andrew thought. Brandon was a cokehead; he liked the rolling high it brought, but Andrew always thought heroin suited himself better.

He always thought he was a lot like the heroin high -- he came crashing in fast and loud with aggression and power that doesn't fizzle out; it just stops, and then there's the terrible post-high experience that leaves him vomiting in the gutter. Yeah, Andrew thinks he's a lot like that, that his life is a lot like that -- this is his post-high, he thinks, getting stuck in Vancouver with no money and no place to go.

"I'm going out for coffee with a friend," he tells Ryan. He doesn't invite him and Kevin to join, which is all well as they say they're off to IHOP for pancakes anyway, and Andrew can't afford that shit if he's going to buy drugs that night.

Andrew and Brandon walk silently, side by side to a Blenz a few blocks from the rink. "So, you disappeared," Brandon breaks the silence as he holds the door open for Andrew (always the gentleman).

"I needed to get away. This place gets stifling," Andrew says. Brandon raises an eyebrow -- they walk up to the counter; Brandon gets a coffee, black, while Andrew orders a white hot chocolate with extra whip (yeah, he's seven at heart).

"What's stifling about it?" Brandon asks, and Andrew shrugs as they grab their drinks and seat themselves at a corner table. There are a few used napkins and a pastry wrapper on the table; both of them lean back, far away from the table, from each other as possible.

"I don't know. I think it might've been seasonal depression. I know it doesn't get too cold here, but it's just so grey." Andrew knows his depression isn't seasonal, but it's just another thing to add to the list of while lies he's told Brandon over the years.

"So you left." It wasn't a question, but Andrew nods anyway.

"Yeah, I did. I booked a flight to Prague because I heard it's nice, and just kind of went from there. I saw a lot of cool places," Andrew shrugs. It feels so insignificant now, like that part of his life hadn't actually happened. It feels so unjust to summarize his past year or so in such an insignificant word -- cool didn't begin to cover what he learned.

"I think it was good for you," Brandon sips his coffee and after a moment, he continues, "You're less of a truculent asshole now."

"Thanks," Andrew spits. 

"You've calmed down though," Brandon tells him, and Andrew squeezes the crook of his left arm -- it's becoming a bad habit. It feels weird to hear Brandon say these things in such a hollow tone when years before there would be an affectionate hair ruffle or nickname attached to a warm smile.

"I grew up," Andrew tells him, jutting his chin out defiantly. He wants to make Brandon laugh, but it only makes him roll his eyes. "You're different too. You're quieter."

"I cleaned up," Brandon shrugs like it isn't a big deal, like that isn't a huge lifestyle change. Like he hadn't been fighting it for years before his thing with Andrew ended.

"Did you clean up because-?"

"I cleaned up because I wanted to," Brandon snaps before Andrew can finish his sentence. "I finally got my life together, okay? I don't need you back in it trying to drag me down with you and your-" Brandon stops to gesture at how Andrew's gripping his arm, "Your whatever that is."

"That's an arm," Andrew says flatly.

"Are you sure? Because you sure don't seem to know how to use it," Brandon snaps. It's a stupid argument and Brandon's on edge. Andrew thinks it may be safer to veer away from the topic at hand, but he never liked playing safe anyway.

"Did you do it yourself?" He asks Brandon, who stops suddenly, looking at him, incredulous.

"No, I didn't fucking do it by myself! I was putting hundreds of dollars up my nose. I couldn't do it by myself, Mutt." And there it was, that dumb nickname the guys in his crew used to call him. He loved it most coming from Brandon; he always had. It sounds different though; it doesn't sound like a challenge anymore. It sounds like contempt. "And you fuckwads sure didn't help at all."

"Hey, are you trying to blame me?" Andrew bristles. "I didn't ask you to do it. Hell, I wouldn't have met you if it weren't for it. I know I'm an idiot. I haven't got anyone to blame but myself for my addiction. But at least I know that," Andrew stands. "You know, I'm glad you don't come around to shows anymore. That means I don't have to see you around."

"You know," Brandon says to Andrew's retreating back, "To see me, you'd have to stick around longer than a day or two."

"What if I'm here to stay?" Andrew asks, spinning around. He's breathing heavily, trying to calm down. It's harder here than it had been while he'd been running back and forth at the game.

"Stay?" Brandon laughs in his face, walking up to him. "You're a fucking Mutt. You don't know how to stay." Brandon pushes past him, and out the door, leaving Andrew standing at the counter with his empty coffee mug like an idiot.

xvx

For Andrew, falling in love had always come easy -- leaving it all behind had been the hardest part. He fell hard and fast for a lot of things: hockey, the Pacific Ocean, backpacking, the punk lifestyle, alcohol, heroin, and Brandon.

He drops off the last of his savings at his dealer's house and fumbles his way to a nearby park where he climbs a tree and watching the sun fall. He shoots up in the tree, up high where no one can see him, on the edge of the industrial side of town. He thinks he does it because it makes him feel superior to the washed out junkies that clutter the street on East Hastings, but he knows he isn't much better. He never was.

Andrew's over twenty now, not too far over twenty, but he's old enough to know that he doesn't have to count the years anymore -- they don't matter. Over twenty is over twenty years of falling in love with things that could never love him back, and Andrew can see that clearer now than ever before with the sun fading in the sky and the heavy grey rain clouds blowing in.

He's watched his favourite NHL teams spark and fade, watched the tide roll in and out, watched the city grow and change, and he's watched some of his closest friends live and die.

But he's never watched love fade away, because things like needles and rolling papers don't have feelings. Concrete doesn't house emotions and the waves will never shed tears. 

And to him, it's strange, how suddenly it feels like everything has ended in that coffee shop, in a chain coffee shop he's never cared for that doesn't let homeless kids like Andrew use their bathroom without buying something. Homeless. That's what he is now, he supposes, officially homeless, though he's been homeless for many years before that, searching for a place to call his own like every other asshole he's ever met in the scene. 

He looks at the phone but he's used up the few minutes Marc had given him. He looks at the sky and Vancouver's signature drizzle has already begun. He looks at his arm; his skin is pale, and he's high, but he's not high strung like he usually is -- just strung out, and that's wrong. That's just wrong.

So he pulls the heroin from his pocket. Pulls out a syringe, a spoon, and a lighter. He shoots up again.

xvx

Andrew wakes up on Marc's bed. "Brandon doesn't love me," Andrew says. His voice croaks like a frog and barely fills a corner of the room. Marc stares at him from where he's sitting with his laptop at the desk.

"I know, Mutt." Andrew waits for his body to flinch at the nickname, but he doesn't. It doesn't sound so harsh when it's not spoken with a hollow voice like Brandon's. It doesn't sound so harsh at all -- it's still that same affectionate joke from his friends. Andrew loves his friends, like Marc. Marc's a good friend.

"I was hoping you'd wake up soon. I was starting to think I should've taken you to the hospital."

"How did you find me?"

"Johnny wanted to play kickball."

"Seriously?" Andrew struggles upright. "Kickball?"

"Yeah." 

"Wow," Andrew groans as his head spins. "I don't remember getting back here."

"You were pretty fucked up," Jordan says as he waltzes into Marc's room. "You're out of bacon dude."

"Fuck off. You can buy your own food fucking bum," Marc sighs. "So, I take it you ran into Brandon yesterday?" Marc asks Andrew, who nods.

"Yeah, he was at the pick-up game my friend took me to."

"I'm not surprised; Brandon's always been into hockey," Marc says. "Not very good at it though."

"At least he doesn't play defense," Andrew tries to joke.

"Weak," Jordan calls, turning around. "I'm going to see if Eric has bacon."

"You do that," Marc says as Jordan leaves. "And if you need eye bleach after, well, it's not my fault I forgot to mention that Jeff was over," Marc mutters quietly under his breath after the door slams behind his brother.

"Were you guys fighting again?"

"Yeah, we always did, so I guess that hasn't changed."

"No, it's nothing new. So he doesn't love you; why is this a revelation?"

"I don't know," Andrew says, pulling his knees to his chest. "I just thought maybe he would've missed me, just a little bit, when I was gone, but it wasn't even like we'd ever been close, you know? It was like we'd just always fought like that."

"But you did," Marc says, confused.

"Yeah, I guess, but there were some nice moments too," Andrew says quietly. "I miss it, you know? Having someone to hold my hand when I wanted him to, and push me headfirst into the wall if I needed that too?"

"Do you need it?" 

"Sometimes," Andrew whimpers, barely above a whisper. Marc moves toward the bed; Andrew unconsciously slips forward, and just when he thinks Marc is going to throw him against the wall, Marc slides his hands over Andrew's and squeezes tight.

"Then just ask for it," Marc tells him. Andrew nods once. "It can't be just that though. What else did he say to you?"

"He said he doesn't need me back in his life to drag him down. I never dragged him down! Did I drag him down?"

"I don't know," Marc shrugs. "You guys lived in your own little world. You didn't let any of us in. Maybe you should have."

"Yeah," Andrew groans. "I see that now. It was just an easy hook up to him I guess."

"Don't say that. He's probably got a lot going on right now. It could be anything. Maybe you showed up at a bad time."

"Looks like he's got his life pretty together to me," Andrew snaps, then flinches. "Sorry. I shouldn't be whining at you after you just saved my sorry ass."

"No, it's fine," Marc tells him. "Though, maybe I'd feel better if you got your bag and stayed here from now on."

"What does from now on mean?" Andrew asks him. "Until I get a job or until I decide to leave again?"

"Whichever comes first," Marc shrugs. 

"Let's get my bag," Andrew decides.

xvx

"Thanks for letting me sleep on your couch," Andrew tells Ryan, even though he only slept there once. "Sorry I didn't stick around to hang out more."

"That's cool," Ryan smiles at him. "You seemed to get along with the guys; if you want to come play pick-up with us again sometime, just give me a text," Ryan types his number into Andrew's phone. 

"Thanks," Andrew says, turning to pick up his backpack. He doesn't think he's going to see Ryan again anytime soon, not if Brandon always comes to the games, but he's not one to cut contacts he may need in the future.

On the bus ride back to Marc's, he thinks about what Brandon said. He's right -- he's not as high strung or truculent as he was back before he'd left. He doesn't know if it's age or time or the fact that for the first time in a year he has the space to slow down.

He doesn't know, but he thinks he can get used to it. He doesn't like vibrating with energy; he doesn't like bleeding enthusiasm and leaking words at a hundred kilometres an hour. Andrew can handle this new, calmer version of himself, though he's not sure where it came from.

He falls in bed next to Marc that night, and stares at the ceiling. He's still an insomniac -- he's probably always going to be an insomniac, listening to his own voice taunting him with morning inside his head.

Marc sleeps with one hand on Andrew's arm. He's still sleeping when Andrew wakes up at dawn, snoring softly and smelling faintly of marijuana. It smells a lot like home, Andrew thinks, and he thinks marijuana is a dumb thing to think of as home, but lately the scents of weed and beer have been a lot more welcoming than the swell of the Pacific and the grey city skies.

Andrew thinks he should check out the local detox facility in a few hours when more normal people wake up and places actually open. He thinks about what Johnny told him, about how it's hard to get in, but then again Andrew's always liked a challenge.

So maybe he's not any less truculent than he was before. Maybe he just hadn't found something worth fighting for in a while. "Hey Marc, hey," he shakes his friend awake.

"Hmm?" Marc's hair is mussed, his eyes are half-lidded, and Andrew hasn't gotten laid in a while, so he kisses him awake, open mouthed with a lot of tongue, quick and eager and sloppy. Like a Mutt, Brandon would've said. Marc would say.

"God, you're like a fucking Mutt," Marc does say, and that stupid chiding tone laced with affection makes Andrew's heart swell with jubilance.

And Marc kisses back, not half-hearted but with equal passion like he does everything else -- like he petitions the city for performance spaces, like he sells tickets for shows, like he posts flyers all over East Van. 

"What's on your mind? You doing alright?" Marc asks him, breathing hard, pressing his hips against Andrew's, and pressing him tightly against the mattress and against the wall. It's a movement shy of aggressive, but it works for Marc. It always has, really. 

"I'm okay," Andrew says, and he means it this time. It's the most okay he's been since he left to chase a dream that he never had, and for the first time in a long time, he thinks he's actually moving on with his life. "I'm okay." He repeats. 

"Good," Marc says.

"I think," Andrew says between rough kisses, "I want to get clean."

"Good," Marc says again, against Andrew's lips. He reaches up, and scruffs his neck. "God Mutt, that's... You're such a good boy."

And if Andrew gets off on that, well he isn't lying about that either.

**Author's Note:**

> They always told me, "Write what you know," so I made a list of the things I loved, but that wasn't what I knew, so I crossed it out and wrote a list about growing up, but that wasn't right either. It took me almost seven years to make a list of the things I know; there aren't a lot of them and it isn't a very happy list, but I have it now.
> 
> And this is the result. So this isn't a very happy story, because I haven't always had a very happy life. This isn't a fairy tale with a happy ending because the end hasn't happened yet, and there are no condescending morals to change your outlook on life. No, this is a piece of what I know, nothing more, and nothing less. It took me a long time, but I have learned to be proud of this – to appreciate where I was raised, where I came from, and where I grew into who I am today.
> 
> I am blessed. I have a great circle of friends, a supportive, loving family, and a handful of assholes who would bend over backwards to see me some days. I've been to Europe three times, I live in the most beautiful place on earth, and I am alive.
> 
> That's all I can ask for right now I guess, now that this is all over. This was a hard story to write, so please, be gentle. And thank you, for everything, for reading this, for being here, because that means the world to me right now.


End file.
